A Matter of Time, A Matter of Opportunity
by Freckles04
Summary: Five years after the end of the Blight, Aideen Tabris ventures to Highever and discovers healing is really a matter of time, and a matter of opportunity.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The world and characters of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations._

_This is for MiliaTimmain, who plays Fergus on Warden's Vigil, a Dragon Age Roleplaying Community. _

_She is an amazing friend and a great person, and I wanted to thank her just for being her. Love ya!_

_Also many thanks to jenncgf for being my beta reader on this. I really appreciate it!  
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Fergus stared at his desk. Duty stared back at him, a taskmistress that hovered incessantly. Harsh, unforgiving, she never gave him any leeway, always there, always present, always a reminder of what he should have been, and what he wasn't.

He flicked the paper in his hand aside, barely noticing as it fluttered across his desk like a bloated albino butterfly. His good hand reached up and rubbed the right side of his face. Two fingers pressed into his closed eye, rubbing in circles to help relieve some of the tension building there. It didn't help. He hadn't really expected it to; it was a habit, nothing more.

The skin on the left side of his face was itching again, but not really. Ghost sensations, not real, and he knew from experience that if he rubbed the scars beneath the patch, he'd just feel pain, not relief. So he ignored it.

Opening his eye again, he looked at the paper he'd tossed away. A letter from an outlying bann, the third he'd received from the man, criticizing the teyrnir for not providing enough protection. Apparently some of his livestock had been fallen prey to wolves, and somehow this was Highever's fault. Why not? Everything was the teyrn's fault, wasn't it?

He'd never appreciated how much pressure was placed on the teyrn to run things just so. How had his father done it? He'd managed to keep everyone happy, all of his subjects loyal and content, and Fergus simply had no idea how he'd accomplished such a thing. He could almost see his father scowling at him as his thoughts turned in that direction; yes, he'd been trained to follow in Bryce's footsteps, but it had come too soon. He wasn't ready. He wasn't prepared for this.

"Your lordship?"

Fergus's head snapped up at the voice at the door. His seneschal, Donnell, stood there, a puzzled expression on his face. A matching frown creased the teyrn's face. "Yes?"

"You...have a visitor, your grace."

Fergus's frown deepened at the hesitation in the man's voice. Yet another bann, come to scold him, or plead for funds, or both? He sighed. "Donnell, I don't really—"

"It's the Hero, your lordship."

The Hero of Ferelden? Why in Thedas...? He rose to his feet, resting heavily on his good leg until his left was able to bear some weight. "Send her in, then."

Donnell bowed his head and his shadow left the doorway. Fergus made his way around his desk, his right hand trailing over it, rustling the papers that covered the rich, dark wood. Questions raced through his mind. Why would she appear, unannounced? Had something befallen Amaranthine? Was something about to happen in Highever? It had been more than five years since Alistair Theirin had slain the archdemon and died himself in the battle; surely the darkspawn were a thing of the past? That's what history taught. Without a tainted dragon to inspire them to greater things, the monsters stayed underground, an intermittent threat.

Fergus blinked in surprise as the Arlessa of Amaranthine walked into his study. He always forgot how tiny she was. Slender, petite; she seemed more suited to wearing dresses than the leathers in which she was clad now. Her long, blonde hair was caught in a simple tie at the nape of her neck, longer than it had been when he'd seen her briefly five years before, in advance of her formally taking up the reins of the arling. Her pale eyes were still her most striking feature: the lightest grey, they reminded him of a cloud-filled sky in the depths of winter. Cold, icy, unforgiving. Looking at her eyes, which held the age her body and face did not, he could no longer imagine her in a dress, nor did he think of her as a gentle maiden. This was the Hero of Ferelden, the woman who had saved the nation when no one else would, or could.

"My lady," Fergus greeted her with a bow of his head.

"Your grace." Her voice was just as cool and emotionless as her gaze. "I am sorry to intrude without notice, ser."

Fergus waved his gloved hand, as if her appearance was of no consequence. "It is not a bother. I won't lie, however; I am curious as to what prompted it." Curious, apprehensive, one word was just as good as the other.

"I..." Her voice trailed off, as though whatever she'd planned to say abandoned her at the last second. Lips thinned, then quirked a little, and she spoke again. "It is nothing to concern yourself with. I don't bear any dire news."

A tendril of relief wound itself through Fergus. "No?"

"No." A flicker of emotion crossed her face, there and gone too quickly for Fergus to determine what it was. "I'm simply taking a break."

He stared at her for a moment, sure he'd misheard. "A break?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he could almost see her hackles rise. "Yes, a break. I think I've earned it, don't you?"

He held out his hands in a placating gesture, a small smile stretching his lips. As always, it was crooked, since the muscles in the left side of his face did not work well. "I did not say you hadn't, my lady, but it's rather sudden, don't you think?"

"No," she said, her voice softening. "I don't think it's sudden at all."

He considered her for a moment, considered her words. He supposed she was right; she'd done nothing but work for Ferelden for more than six years. There were rewards, surely, for what else could one call being awarded an arling? But still, he could only imagine what she'd sacrificed in order to be standing in front of him today. His brows dropped an iota as he recalled a rumor he'd heard circulating after the end of the Blight, that she and Alistair Theirin had been...involved. To his knowledge, she'd never confirmed it. Fergus himself knew nothing of the man save that he'd been the bastard son of Maric, who had been thrust at the throne by Eamon in the wake of King Cailan's death at Ostagar. But from what he'd heard after the fact, it had been the woman before him who had dashed that dream of Eamon's. She chose Anora to remain as Queen. He wondered how ill-suited this Alistair must have been, that the Warden would overlook his royal blood and choose to keep a commoner on the throne.

"Be that as it may," he said finally, "you are welcome to remain at Highever for as long as you wish, my lady. I shall arrange for accommodations befitting your station."

Her eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and he wondered if she was taken aback by the idea of having a "station". How odd must all this be, still, after being raised in an Alienage? That thought reminded him of a missive from the Highever hahren, which dimmed his mood somewhat. Yet something else awaiting his attention. He needed a break himself, but that would not happen. And he didn't quite trust himself to not turn such a thing into a permanent vacation from his duties. How tempting that would be, to run off to the Free Marches, or...or perhaps to Antiva, to lose himself in memories.

"Thank you, your lordship," the Commander of the Grey replied, inclining her head.

"I assume you've left someone capable in your place, as proxy?" he asked casually as he made his way to the bell pull to summon Donnell.

"I have, your grace." Her back seemed to stiffen as he regarded her, and he had a sudden inkling that he was not going to like her choice. "Nathaniel Howe."

_Howe._ At the utterance of that name, adrenaline rushed through Fergus. His good hand flexed, as though readying itself to wrap around the hilt of a blade and strike...something. Anything. Preferably the man with that Maker-damned name.

Intellectually, he knew that a son was just as much to blame for a father's misdeeds as to be praised for a father's successes. But his heart heard _Howe_ and remembered only the disarray to which he'd returned, the pain that had welcomed him. It was Howe who had massacred his family. Father, mother, sister, wife, child. Every single Cousland, wiped from Thedas by Howe's maddened ambition. And now a Howe was in power in Amaranthine?

"No." His voice was deceptively calm, like the stillness before a storm. Had Donnell been in the room, the seneschal would have quickly exited, knowing what would follow.

"Yes." The Commander arched a brow. "Would you prefer I left the apostate in charge, your grace? Or perhaps the drunken dwarf? As much as I value my Wardens and their skills in battle, only one has the capacity to be as skilled in the realm of the nobility."

"If that is your only choice, then I would prefer you not leave your post, my lady." The words were short, sharply spoken, each enunciated precisely. He made his way back to his desk, his good hand surreptitiously providing some support against the top.

"So I'm to be chained to the arling permanently, then, never to leave?" She crossed her arms over her chest, and he didn't miss the sparks entering her cool gaze. "That is unacceptable."

"No, what is _unacceptable_ is you allowing the son of the man that was responsible for the siege of my teyrnir to rule the arling that was stripped from his family!" Fergus punctuated his words by slapping his palm against the desk. "There is a reason that arling was removed from the Howe family. They are dogs, not worthy of the title."

"He saved your life once!"

"And that erases everything his family did to mine? I think not!" Fergus's temper was fully unleashed now, the ochre of his good eye burning into the Commander's gaze. His voice dripped with contempt and hate, even as memories of the bandit ambush and Nathaniel's timely arrival rose unbidden. Who was to say that Howe had not planned the whole thing in order to achieve better graces within the nobility? It would not be the first time a Howe had proven manipulative and ambitious. "His father was best friend to my own. And he betrayed us, killed all of us, except for me. I was _lucky_ enough to have left before the siege began. So don't you dare insinuate that I do not know what the Howes are capable of. I know better than you do, Commander."

"Nathaniel is not his father," she insisted.

"It doesn't matter!" He gritted his teeth. "You will send word immediately that he is to be removed from the position in which you placed him."

A muscle twitched in her own jaw for a moment before she spoke again. "The Grey Wardens do not answer to you, your grace."

"But the Arlessa of Amaranthine does." He gripped the side of his desk so tightly it was a wonder the wood did not creak.

"Well." She tossed her head, and he noticed spots of color had risen in her cheeks. Not nearly as calm and collected as she appeared to be, then. "It's rather a good thing I'm not Arlessa anymore, is it?"

Fergus stared at her, stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

"I petitioned the Queen to release me from that duty, and she has." Her eyes met his own, challenging him to doubt her word, or to doubt the Queen's. "She supported my nomination for my successor. Given his actions, he has more than made amends for his father's crimes. He has the skills, and the knowledge—"

"Son of a bitch," Fergus breathed.

"The Queen herself ventured to Amaranthine to install Nathaniel as arl." She cocked her head. "Am I still welcome in Highever for as long as I wish, your grace?"


	2. Chapter 2

Aideen Tabris quickly discovered that her favorite place in Castle Cousland was the courtyard just outside of the small chantry. Not because she was especially religious, but simply because it seemed to be an area to which few people ventured. Peaceful, serene, even, and the sound of the Chant being murmured not far away was like a meditative hum, encouraging her to relax and forget.

An added plus was that she'd yet to see the teyrn in that locale. In speaking with the Revered Mother, she learned that, indeed, he rarely visited the chantry.

Not that she could blame him, not after what he'd experienced, what he'd lost. If anyone had lived through something that would prove that the Maker had turned his gaze away from His children, Fergus Cousland had. Not only to be scarred so horribly, but to be so completely alone; her heart, the thing in her chest that she'd thought a long-dead weight, ached for him.

She was alone as well, there was no mistake, but she at least had the semblance of a family. The Wardens would always accept her, always be there for her, even if the one she wanted to see most was no longer in their ranks. She had companionship, if not love; friendship, if not true family. Fergus did not even have that intimation.

And, really, she should stop thinking about the Teyrn of Highever and turn her energies to more pressing matters. Like gathering her courage and doing what she'd come to Highever to do.

It was simply easier to sit on the bench in the courtyard, however, watching the clouds drift lazily, listening to the birdsong blend with the comforting monotony of the Chant, drawing in both the aromas of spring flowers and that of baking bread drifting through the halls from the kitchen. It was a time of leisure she did not think she'd ever experienced previously. In the Alienage, there had always been the bustle of the city to interrupt any quiet time she might have stolen for herself, not that she'd ever found a surplus of that. Matters had conspired against her; matters of finding food, money, work, that left little time to sit and contemplate one's navel. There'd been pranks and getting into trouble with her cousins and friends when she was younger, then learning blade tactics and how not to be seen from her mother as she grew, then finally working to help support her father as she moved into adulthood. Then the ruined wedding, the travels through the countryside, the final battle of the Blight, travelling Ferelden once more to chase off the straggling darkspawn, then back to Amaranthine and duty and yet more of the monsters.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Aideen felt as though she could actually breathe. She did so, taking air deeply into her lungs and letting it out just as slowly. The barest hint of a smile crossed her lips as she regarded the cerulean sky stretching overhead.

"I was told I'd find you here."

Aideen started, righting herself on the bench to meet Fergus Cousland's scarred visage. And that was why she didn't allow herself to relax; she became stupid, letting down her guard and not paying enough attention to her surroundings. How could she have missed the teyrn's distinctive shuffling gait?

She moved to stand, but Fergus waved his gloved hand at her to forestall the action. "Please, don't."

"Good day, then," she said, nodding. She braced her hands on either side of her as he moved to a bench nearby, settling onto it with a slight grunt. Was he in pain constantly? With the obvious extent of his injuries, it wouldn't surprise her. What was more shocking was that he'd survived, and survived untainted.

"I don't come here often enough," he said, his unpatched eye wandering over the shrubs and flowers as if seeing them for the first time.

"It's peaceful." The admission came from her unbidden. She felt vulnerable, suddenly, as if she'd walked into an ambush unarmed and unarmored. She cursed her simple linen tunic and leather breeches, wishing they offered the comfortable protection of her drakeskin leathers. But wandering about in full armor would be stupid in a castle, wouldn't it? Never mind that she was more at home in the leathers than leisurely clothes such as the ones she was wearing.

"I suppose it is." His gaze lingered on the door to the chantry and she saw a slight narrowing as he heard the whispers of the Chant. She thought for a moment he might make a comment—given his own trials, she had no doubt that he held a similar view of the Maker as she, that the deity was next to useless. But he held his tongue, turning back to look at her.

He'd been a handsome man, once. She could see the remnants even beneath the rough, pocked patches of skin on the left side of his face. The scarring was not as bad in some places as others. He was still able to sport a full goatee, even though the left side of it was decidedly less full than the right. No stubble peppered his jaw on the left side, though a permanent shadow could be seen on the right. The prominent black patch covering his left eye also hid what she suspected were some of the worst scars on his face; it was only a suspicion, though. He seemed to perpetually wear a glove on his left hand, and she wondered at that. It was as though the ineffective god of Thedas had decided that Fergus Cousland should bear his horrible, soul-deep scars on the outside of his body as well as on the inside.

For Aideen recognized another disfigured soul. One did not harbor the rage contained within the teyrn without consequence.

"I..." He blew out a breath, then ran his good hand through his hair, only to have it get caught up in the strap that held his eyepatch in place. "Damn it," he muttered as he tried to right it. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now, but no..." He sighed, finally achieving his goal, and turned his attention back to her.

"I wanted to apologize for my outburst yesterday." The words were dragged from him, reluctantly, but there was no fire in his right eye to say that he was angry at having to make the apology. "Whatever my personal feelings, your decision is sanctioned by the Queen, and I am bound by duty to support her decisions. But please understand from whence I hail on this matter. That man's bastard father—"

"I know." Her voice was soft, yet he stopped as quickly as though she'd yelled it. "When we snuck into Howe's Denerim estate, I heard men laughing as they told the tale of what had transpired here. Laughing. What kind of a man fosters behavior such as that in his troops? It sickened me."

"It was you who killed him?" Fergus had turned his eye to watch a bush with particularly bright blooms rather than look at her. She wasn't sure if it was for her benefit, or his. "I'd heard as much, but I've never had the chance to ask."

"It was," she admitted.

"I wish I could have been there." His good hand rubbed over his gloved hand has he spoke, an absent gesture.

"Why?" She shifted on the bench to face him more directly. He still wouldn't look at her, but it mattered little. "He paid for his crimes, and you being there to witness it or carry it out would not bring back your family."

He did look at her then, and the fire she'd seen in his eye the day before was back, burning as hotly as ever. "Perhaps not. But seeing his dying breaths..."

"Doesn't help," she said. "Then you have that memory to carry about, and it offers no comfort."

He watched her for a moment, and it was Aideen's turn to look elsewhere. A bird perched at the top of a nearby shrub sang at her insolently, as if she were the interloper. She supposed she was, really; she certainly didn't belong in Highever, no more than she belonged in Amaranthine, or even Denerim, now.

"You know from experience, don't you?" Some of the ire had left Fergus's voice, but it was still sharp.

Aideen didn't answer at first, staring at the bird that continued to chirp, nagging her. She never learned what all the birds in Ferelden were called. There were big ones and little ones, and that's all she knew. This was a little one, not that it mattered. Even the big ones weren't all that big.

"Unfortunately, Howe was not the first noble I'd killed in that estate," she said quietly, still looking at the bird. Vaughan was; also the first man she'd ever desperately wanted to kill. Carrying out that desire hadn't helped her. If anything, it had tainted her more irrevocably than the Joining chalice.

Silence stretched between them. She was half-afraid he'd press her for details, but Fergus remained quiet. Chancing a peek at him, she saw that he was looking up at the sky, perhaps as entranced by the simple beauty of the fluffy white clouds passing overhead as she'd been.

His eye caught her gaze before she could look away and pretend she hadn't been watching him. "Was it Vaughan Kendall?" A grimace twisted his lips. "It was something of a non-secret that the tastes of the arl's son were rather...dark."

Dark tastes? That was one way to put it, she decided. A humorless smile alighted on her lips. "King Cailan seemed rather surprised when I told him."

"You met the King?"

"At Ostagar. I arrived shortly before the final battle."

"Of course. You and Alistair were the only Wardens to survive."

She stiffened at the name. It was an uncontrollable reaction, a stupid one, one she should not be subject to, after all this time. But her body, her mind, her heart, betrayed her.

Five years. Five years that felt like five hours sometimes, five minutes. She'd see something, and be reminded—a rose, a particular half-smile on a man's face, Andraste's symbol; anything, really, could trigger memories. She'd grown accustomed to the sudden floods and managed to control them, mostly, except for that damn stiffening of her shoulders.

Her worst reaction, by far, had occurred when she'd first met Anders. She'd frozen in place, unable to move, and Anders had thought her struck by his incredible beauty or some such nonsense. For weeks afterward, whenever she'd catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, she'd stiffen, thinking for just a moment that the light show atop Fort Drakon had been nothing but a bad dream. Then the mage would turn, and she'd see the truth, and she'd have to struggle to keep her emotions in check.

Anders had noticed, of course, and immediately attributed her reaction to her being enamored of him. He'd flirted, and teased her, thinking he was encouraging her; but truly, what he'd been doing was shove knife after knife into her heart. It had been Oghren, of all people, who'd seen the damage and understood the cause. He'd come across her crying in the courtyard of the Vigil one night. He'd said nothing, just laid one of his massive hands on her shoulder, rubbing gently until the sobs subsided. Then he left, still wordless, and Anders had not said anything since. She assumed Oghren had said something to him, but she'd never asked the dwarf about it, and he hadn't volunteered any information.

"That's right." She rose from the bench and prepared to take her leave. "If you'll excuse me, your lordship."

Fergus lurched to his feet, his good hand braced against the back of the bench for balance and support. "Commander…might I ask a favor?"

One brow arched and she paused. "What is it?"

He suddenly looked uncertain of himself, and she found it rather…charming. A crooked smile, a bit of shyness in meeting her eyes, his good hand reaching up to rub at the stubble-covered side of his jaw. She wondered how old he was; when she'd first walked into his study, yesterday, she would have guessed he had passed forty years of age, but now…now he looked like a young man.

She shook her head, as if to rid herself of those thoughts, and waited for him to speak.

"I need to visit the hahren in the Alienage, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to accompany me," he said quickly. "I realize you're in Highever to take a break, but you might be able to give me insights into the elven culture that I would not otherwise have access to."

She cocked her head, considering. She'd intended to visit the Alienage at some point, anyway; this would be as good of an opportunity as any. "I suppose I could."

"Excellent. I have an appointment with the hahren in two hours. Is that enough time for you to prepare?"

An incredulous expression crossed her face. "Your lordship, I might have held the title of a noble lady for a few years, but I am most definitely not one. I could be ready in five minutes, if required. Two hours is an eternity."

Fergus threw back his head and laughed at that, a completely unexpected reaction. It was not an affected bout of laughter; no, it was genuine, from the gut. She couldn't help the smile that bloomed on her lips in response, nor the tiny chuckle that escaped. Nor could she deny the barest sprout of warmth low in her abdomen.

That knowledge had her clearing her throat and schooling her expression once more. "I shall see you in less than two hours then. At the front gates?" She took a few steps away, scolding herself silently, but unable to stop the motion.

"At the front gates," Fergus confirmed. "I will see you then, my lady."

Aideen spun on her heel at strode off, resisting the urge to check over her shoulder to see if the teyrn was watching her as she left. She shoved the odd thoughts and sensations away as being utterly useless. She would help him by visiting the Alienage today; tomorrow she would do what she'd come to Highever to do. Then she would leave.

Whatever this strangeness was, it was unwelcome and unneeded.


	3. Chapter 3

The nerves that skittered through him made Fergus irritable, more so than usual. When the Commander joined him at the front gates, he nodded sharply to her, but said nothing. They continued to the Alienage in silence, and no doubt she was wondering at his aloofness. Why ask her along if he was going to all but ignore her, hmm?

Why indeed? Fergus rolled that question through his mind over and again as he watched her converse so easily with the hahren and other elders of the Alienage. Her light eyes seemed to warm slightly in their company, with memories of happy times, perhaps. It was easy to see why she'd been a popular choice as arlessa. For all that she was a fierce fighter and a formidable strategist, she was also charismatic. He'd once been like that, he recalled; it had been simple to be so, when life had deposited all of his desires at his feet. Years of training had taught him to settle into any stream of conversation, nudge it subtly; how to tell stories and anecdotes that would encourage his guests to be comfortable and at ease.

Aideen Tabris did all of this with a natural effortlessness. She had not been trained as he had, unless he was gravely mistaken about the focus of the elders in the Alienage. She laughed at the proper places; she smiled knowingly at tidbits of information shared in confidence.

Fergus found himself falling under her spell, just as surely as though she were a blood mage, and he her target. The thought only irritated him more.

When they finally took leave of the hahren, after sharing a late tea, the sun was already well on its way to its bed beyond the horizon. They walked side-by-side. The Alienage was not so far from the castle that they required mounts, and they had no guards. The country was at peace, after all, and no one would dare attack the legendary Hero.

He heard her inhale, as though preparing to say something, but she remained quiet. Glancing at her, he said nothing, concentrating instead on walking up the slight incline. It was not a true challenge, but certainly more difficult than it had once been. He'd grown accustomed to the shuffle-step that was now his trademark gait, if not enamored of it.

He'd almost forgotten his supposition that the Commander had been about to speak, until she finally did. "The elves seem happy," she said. "That's no small feat."

Something in how she said it made him think there was more to her observation. "But?"

She was quiet for a time, and when he looked over at her, he was startled to see her nibbling on her lower lip, as though plagued with indecision. She seemed to realize after a moment that she was making the nervous gesture and released her lip before stopping and turning to face him. "Perhaps I'm naïve," she started. "Or too optimistic. But I had hoped that after the Blight, after all of Ferelden's peoples came together to defeat those monsters, after an elf was appointed as an arlessa and another as a bann in Denerim, that things would have changed more quickly for my people. Instead, they are still living in squalor, segregated, and treated as lower-class citizens."

Indignation caused Fergus to puff up a bit, and he frowned. "I have never viewed elves as second-class citizens."

"Haven't you?" She shook her head, a gesture he was beginning to recognize as one of bottled frustration. Her pale hair glimmered in the golden light cast by the setting sun. "They're not treated equally."

"Are you accusing me of discrimination?" The words were fueled by his temper, coming out faster and sharper than he'd intended.

"No." She sighed and crossed her arms. "No. I am accusing you of complacency, though."

He drew in breath to make a retort, to deny her claim, but held his tongue instead and cast his gaze downward. Her words stung, because they were true. Complacent. He had been, hadn't he? Once the damage left by Howe's men was repaired, he'd done nothing but maintain the status quo. He hadn't taken any huge steps toward…anything, really. He could have. With the damage done to Highever, he could have taken advantage of the rebuilding process and made changes. Perhaps to the Alienage, as she'd implied. Maybe taken down the walls. Removed the physical separation so the cultural separation could cease.

But no. He hadn't done that. He hadn't done anything. Once more it struck him how woefully unprepared he'd been to take up the teyrnir. Through no fault of his father's, no; Bryce had ensured both he and Elissa were trained thoroughly. But he'd needed time to mourn, which he'd never had. He needed time to grieve, to become accustomed to the emptiness of the castle, and that hadn't truly been allotted him, either.

And once more, he was sliding down the slippery slope to self-pity. His parents were likely scolding him from beyond the Fade. He lifted his eyes to meet hers again, only to discover that she'd moved away, as silent as a stalking cat. She hadn't continued toward the castle though; rather, she stood in front of the Grey Warden monument that had been constructed four years before. She'd stopped a few feet in front of it, her figure limned in the fading light against the darker material of the statue. He recalled briefly that she'd marched past it earlier without a second glance, but perhaps now, with pausing so close by, it had caught her imagination.

It had become a regular sight to him as he travelled the road from the castle to Highever proper. He was ashamed to admit that he rarely stopped to admire the craftsmanship anymore. It was just there, always there, and he knew what it represented; but he'd never known the people it depicted.

Aideen Tabris had.

The monument was composed of three faceless, featureless silhouettes, one each to represent Duncan, the Grey Warden Commander who was killed at Ostagar; Riordan, the Senior Grey Warden from Orlais who wounded the archdemon, causing it to become grounded on the top of Fort Drakon; and in the centre, Alistair Theirin, King Maric's by-blow, who Aideen Tabris had chosen not to make King and who instead killed the archdemon with his last action on this plane. Behind the three figures was an exquisitely carved griffon, its talons raised toward the rising sun as if welcoming a new age.

It struck him, then, as he watched her, motionless before the monument, that she'd likely never seen it. Her head was tilted back so she could gaze up at the figures set on a pedestal, and for a moment, in the last light of the sun, she looked like that maiden he'd once fancied she was.

As she continued to stand there, unmoving, Fergus joined her. His steps were not so silent as hers; there was no way she could mistake him shuffling to her side, but she gave no indication she'd heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on the figure in the middle.

"There were no paintings of any of them to use as a reference for the monument," he explained after a moment. "The artist was quite concerned by it for a time. In the end, we decided that the silhouettes ensured that all Grey Wardens were represented, even if it were these three that were named on the plaque."

She swallowed and nodded, blinking. "It was a good choice."

He waited for her to say more, but she didn't, seemingly enthralled by the statue. What was she envisioning as she looked at it? "I never met them," he said softly. "It pains me to admit it, that I never knew these men, who will be residents of my teyrnir forevermore."

She glanced at him then, and he caught the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was strong and unwavering. "It was I who requested the monument be built here. After Duncan's death, Alistair suggested that he would like to travel here, where Duncan had been from, in order to build a tribute to him. I thought it only right that I carry out that wish when Alistair could not."

"What were they like?" He sucked in a breath, suddenly worried that he asked too much, opened up too many old wounds. "If you'd prefer not to answer, my lady, I won't be offended."

"No, it's fine." She took a deep breath. "I met Duncan on my wedding day. He goaded me a little, to see if I would be daring enough to challenge an armed and armored man when I wore only my wedding dress. To protect my people, damn straight I would have. Before we came to blows, however, Duncan revealed his friendship with the hahren; it wasn't until later that I discovered he'd actually come to the Alienage in the hopes of recruiting me into the Wardens. As it turned out, he conscripted me to save me from the gallows. He was a good man. Strong, just…but sad, too. I never had the chance to get to know him well enough to discover why."

She took a breath. He thought she would speak of Alistair next, but she did not. Her gaze travelled to the right, to the figure representing the Senior Warden. "Riordan I barely knew. He had been tricked by Rendon Howe and captured in Denerim, and we set him free. He was the first Warden to ever call me sister, and in that moment, I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself. It was a reminder, and a reassurance, I desperately needed after struggling for so long against so many obstacles, and feeling like Alistair and I were completely alone, abandoned by the order, as unintentional as it was." She took a breath, then continued. "He was an intense man, very focused on what was necessary, but there was a warmth to him, too. He'd been born in Ferelden, but had lived in Orlais most of his life, so he had the most wonderful accent."

Her eyes drifted to the center figure, reluctantly. Ivory teeth captured her lower lip again, and she stared up at the silhouette as if she could see his features in her mind. "Alistair…"

Her voice trembled, something he hadn't expected to hear, and he raised a hand to stop her, to tell her that she didn't need to continue. But before Fergus could say anything, she went on, her eyes seeing only the statue before them.

"Alistair was the most noble man I had ever met," she began. "He saw the world in black and white, right and wrong. Even in the midst of all the problems and the difficulties we faced, he found beauty. He was innocent, and yet not; intelligent, and yet thought so little of himself and his abilities. He was a formidable warrior and he could have been an inspiring leader, had Eamon not convinced him at such an early age that he was less than useless. He did not want to be king, and I would not to force him to be. For once in his life, I decided, he would be allowed to choose his fate, instead of having it chosen for him. So when Eamon called for me to mediate the Landsmeet, I abided by Alistair's wishes and confirmed Anora as Queen."

She fell silent, then, and Fergus looked back at the monument, wondering what she saw. How closely had Alistair resembled Maric and Cailan? He wished he'd had a chance to meet the man who had saved Thedas.

"We were supposed to rebuild the Wardens together," she said softly after a time. There was that tremble again, the one that had disappeared earlier as she'd spoken about Alistair impersonally. "He and I. We were supposed to be together, to face everything as one. I was selfish; I admit it, that one of the reasons I chose Anora was to keep him at my side instead of giving him to Ferelden." Her breath seemed to catch, and his eye whipped to her face. "I can't remember what color his eyes were," she confessed in a whisper. "Or his exact features. I remember, but I don't. It's fuzzy, not clear. How could I forget? How could I dishonor him like that, and forget?"

He looked at her teary eyes and found his own eye burning in sympathy. He knew exactly what she meant. He could no longer remember how tall Oren had been, nor the true shade of Oriana's hair. Oren's voice sounded off in his memories now, as though he was not remembering correctly. And there had been a particular lilt to Oriana's voice that he'd adored, but that he could no longer hear in his mind quite right. It was like he lost a little more of them every day.

It hurt. How it hurt.

She closed her eyes, her face still upturned, and he did not resist the urge to comfort her. Stepping closer, he put his arm around her shoulders, expecting her to, at worst, pull away and at best, accept the gesture with a stiffening of her shoulders. What she did, instead, he could not have predicted.

She turned into him, burying her face in his chest, and sobbed.

He let her. Enfolding his arms around her, he held her and let her cry. There was no one there to see, no one there to judge. She might be the Hero of legend, but she had lost something so terrible in order to become it. He understood loss, but he could not comprehend how she had managed to be so successful despite it crushing her.

"Memories become less clear with time," he said as her sobs began to subside. He raised his gloved hand and stroked her hair. "I understand, better than most, I think. It may be of little comfort, but you remember the most important things about him. What he looked like, what color his eyes were; those details are unimportant, really. It was not his appearance that left a mark on you and this world, but who he was. And that's something you'll never forget."

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose pink as well. The stark grey of her gaze was even more striking, glistening as it was, and, yes, she was very much the maiden he'd thought her at one point. He raised his good hand without thought and brushed away a tear that had stalled on her cheekbone. Then, equally without predetermination, leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

She did not react at first, and he called himself twenty kinds of fool for his thoughtless action. She mourned her lost love; of course she wouldn't welcome such a thing. He began to draw back, already preparing his apology, when a hand snaked into his thick mahogany hair and pulled his lips back to hers.

All thoughts of apologies fled before the assault on his senses. She was not gentle, not timid; she took as well as she gave, and he welcomed the boldness she displayed. Sharp teeth nipped at his lips, her tongue danced eagerly with his, and he could not help the moan that escaped his as his desire rose exponentially.

He'd had women since he'd returned to Highever. Not for some time after his first arrival, as the extent of the damage and his loss sank in. But it had become something of a stress relief for him, to venture to the town's sole brothel. The women there had always been polite and quite good at their chosen occupation, perhaps even eager to fulfill the desires of the teyrn.

But this…this was different. The need that thrummed from Aideen was not something he'd felt in a very long time. It stoked the fires within him ever hotter, made crazy thoughts rumble through his mind. Was it dark enough to have her without anyone noticing?

He pulled back with a gasp, ashamed at himself. That was not how a gentleman treated a woman, no matter how passionate things were between them. "My apologies, my lady, I never—"

In an instant, the heat that had blazed in her eyes frosted, and turned to ice. How quickly she was able to push her emotions aside. It was something he'd struggled with constantly since rising from near death.

"No apology necessary." She disentangled herself from his arms, stepping back one, then two paces.

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "You were vulnerable, after relating what you did. It was not right of me to take advantage of you in such a manner."

"You did not take advantage of me," she returned, her voice measured now. No hint of the tremble remained. "I chose to let my guard down, to share with you what I did. It was not an accident that I did so, but because I knew that you might grasp it when no one else does." Her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers digging into her biceps, the only sign that she was not as calm as she wanted to seem. "That…was not planned, or expected, but nor was it unwelcome. Do you disagree?"

He blinked, more than a little taken aback. "I…well…no?"

"Good." She strode off, down the path toward the castle. After a few steps, she paused and looked back. "Sleep well, your grace."

"Fergus," he corrected her. "Please, just Fergus."

She nodded and continued on her journey through the deepening night. If Fergus expected her to respond with an invitation to address her by her name rather than her title, he was left wanting. Instead, he watched her go, trying to figure out the puzzle that was Aideen Tabris.


	4. Chapter 4

Aideen paced in her room two nights later. Two sleepless, frustrating nights later. Anger coursed through her. At the same time she acknowledged that it was idiotic and unworthy of her, she fanned it as well. Because of a certain teyrn's lips against her own, she now desired things she'd thought locked away forever. A caress, just so; another kiss, another dozen; the feeling of bodies moving together, joined…

"Maker's breath." She paused in her pacing, wiping a hand against a damp brow.

Damn him for that! She'd said that the kiss hadn't been unwelcome, and it hadn't; the man knew how to do it properly, and he was different enough from Alistair that she wasn't struck with memory after memory. Beyond the heat it had enflamed within her, it had been…nice to be so close to someone again, to feel such a contact with another person. It had eased the ache in her heart, just a little, making that connection.

And he hadn't done a damn thing about it.

He hadn't sought her out again. He hadn't dined with her, though it was customary to do so at least once with a guest. In fact, he'd all but avoided her. His seneschal had run interference when she'd attempted to visit the teyrn in his office that morning, stating some nonsense about work. He might have work, yes, she had no doubt, but she also recognized evasion when she saw it.

She had decided she was going to leave on the morrow. She'd seen the monument, which was what she'd come to Highever to do. The next day, she would view it in daylight, fasten it tightly within her mind, and then head off for Orlais, or the Free Marches, perhaps. She might return to Ferelden, she might not, but she would be damned if she'd leave "just Fergus" without facing whatever it was that was between them.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was heat borne of the moment, and naught more. But Aideen Tabris, Commander of the Grey, was no coward. She refused to let Fergus Cousland turn her into one.

She cast a glance out the window, judging the time of night by the height of the moon. It was well on its way past its zenith. Fergus would likely be in his rooms, readying himself for bed if not already ensconced within, and he would not be able to avoid her.

Slipping out of her chambers, she crept down the hall, keeping to the shadows. Her bare feet made no noise on the carpet-covered stone. No servants were about, confirming the lateness of the hour. The sconces every few feet gave off enough light that she could easily find her way through the corridors, but not so much that the shadows were inadequate for her needs.

Finally she reached the quarters of the teyrn. No guards were posted outside, which, after the tragedy that had befallen Highever previously, Aideen found rather odd. But she supposed that if one succumbed to the fear in such a manner, one would encourage that which one feared to pass.

The door was locked, as she expected. Rather than knock and give him the opportunity to deny her an audience, she pulled out her lockpicks and set to work. It was ridiculously easy to trigger the lock, and within a handful of breaths, she was inside Fergus's rooms.

They were appointed nicely, if simply. Unlike the opulence that had decorated the palace in Denerim, the teyrn's rooms bore the same lack of adornment as the rest of Castle Cousland. At a glance, one could see that the tapestries and carpets were well-made, the furniture exquisite, but none of it seemed overly fussy. The colors were muted, but rich; chestnut, garnet, gold, forest green, with a splash of burnt umber here and there, it reminded her of a wooded hillside in autumn. Beautiful.

The rooms were quiet, and she wondered if indeed Fergus had already retired for the evening. That would not actually hinder her plans much, if he had; perhaps it would even help them. She ventured toward the closed door, the one she assumed led to the bedroom, and paused, hearing a low moan from within. Her pulse quickened, unbidden, for it was immediately recognizable what kind of a moan it was. There was no answering sound from a companion, however, and Aideen's smile grew.

She moved around the receiving area, extinguishing the lanterns that had been left lit, then returned to the bedroom door. Another moan, another smile on her lips. Aideen had been introduced to sex on the road, in the midst of a company of strangers, really, and had quickly realized that being embarrassed about it was a waste of time. Time better spent getting to know Alistair's body and what made him squirm. Her shyness when it came to such acts had disappeared long ago.

She hesitated for just an instant, though, her hand on the doorknob. Would he be angry at her for invading his privacy? Possibly. Did she care? Not really, she decided. Healing was a matter of time, which they'd both had, and opportunity, which was at their fingertips. They just had to be bold enough and brave enough to take it.

Drawing in a breath, she pressed the door open. Its hinges were well oiled, and no squeak gave her away. With the extinguished lamps from the sitting area, nor did any light reveal her presence. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could make out his form on the near side of the bed. It was not difficult to determine what he was doing, either, not that the low moans left anything to the imagination.

She crept into the interior of the room, using the shadows to conceal herself should he open his eyes. Quiet, careful steps took her to the far side of the room, and she levered herself up onto the bed. She couldn't conceal the shifting of the mattress as she did so, and he froze.

"Who's there?" His voice was loud, sharp in the darkness, which begged for hushed tones.

"Me. Aideen," she clarified, a smile on her face. She moved closer to him, one hand questing for his own beneath the covers. Curling her hand around his, she encouraged him to continue the movement.

"Maker…Aideen…what?" The sharpness was gone, replaced by breathlessness, and she thrilled at the change.

"You've been avoiding me, just Fergus," she scolded, a mocking tone in her words.

"I'm dreaming." He moaned as she nudged his hand aside and took over the duty of stroking him. "I must be."

"No dream. I told you the kiss was not unwelcome," she reminded him gently. She hesitated in the rhythm she'd started, looking down at his face in the barest of light sneaking around the window coverings. He did not wear his eyepatch, but there was not enough light to see any detail.

This was not Alistair. That fact was both a blessing and a curse. As much as she wanted her love to be alive, and here, she also felt a connection with Fergus because of the losses they'd experienced. He knew the pain she lived with, just as he knew hers.

"I just want to feel connected again," she confessed. "Not separate from everyone. Is that wrong? To want that from you?"

He reached down and removed her hand from him. She bit her lip, knowing he was about to ask her to leave. She'd gone too far, assumed too much.

Instead, he gently pushed her onto her back and looked down at her. "It's not wrong," he said, softly. His weak hand, the one he normally kept concealed in a glove, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Not if you truly want that, and nothing more."

"I don't want love," she said, her voice ringing with steel. "I had love, and lost it, like you did. All I want is to feel, to be, to know that I'm still Aideen and not just the Commander. Does that make any sense at all?"

"You don't—" He hesitated and she wondered for an instant what he would say. "The scars…they don't bother you?"

She reached up and brushed her fingertips over the scars closest to his ruined eye. As she'd suspected, they were more pronounced there than on the rest of his face. The thought she'd entertained while they were in the courtyard near the chantry came back to her mind. "We all have scars, Fergus," she said softly. "You just carry yours on the outside. They're no more frightening than my own, just more visible."

With a groan, he lowered his lips to hers, and she pressed upward to meet him with an urgency stemming from need too long ignored. His mouth was gentle against hers for only an instant before the kiss deepened, grew hotter, more frenzied. She reveled in the feel of his facial hair bristling against her tender skin. Foreign, yet exciting, it tickled and enticed. She gasped as his mouth left hers and trailed a searing path across her cheek to her ear, and she could not stop the deep, rumbling moan that burst from her as his lips enveloped the tip.

She'd forgotten how sensitive her ears were. They were usually just there, responding to temperature and the kiss of a breeze against them. But when given such attentions by a lover…Maker, she wanted more.

"Elven ears are as reactive to touch as rumor would have it, I take it?" Low, almost a growl, the vibration from his voice against the tender ridge set her to arching beneath him.

She murmured something, she wasn't sure what, but it made him chuckle and continue the caress. Her hands travelled up his abdomen as he nibbled on her ear, feeling the ridges of the scars beneath her fingers. As she'd said to him, they did not dissuade her. She ranged downward, loving the fact that he was nude, that nothing impeded her first discovery of him. His muscles were taut and defined, even beneath the marked skin. He'd struggled to regain his health and vigor, that much was apparent.

"I'm wearing too many clothes," she gasped after a moment.

"Yes," Fergus agreed easily. "You are indeed."

Disrobing her was a hurried business. At some point, while she was wriggling out of her leather breeches, she started giggling, which got Fergus to chuckling, and she smiled up at him, thankful she'd decided to be brave enough, bold enough to take advantage of the opportunity before her. He pulled the breeches the last bit of the way and tossed them aside with a flourish; she followed his lead and did the same with her shirt, then her breastband and smallclothes. Once that was done, he fell upon her again, and the smiles were replaced with moans and sighs.

His lips were marvelous things, knowledgeable and skilled. He knew exactly how to elicit the responses he wanted. He paused just long enough to gaze down at her, making her feel like something to be treasured, then kissed his way down to her breasts. He licked, nudged, teased, suckled, drawing out the pleasure until it trembled on the border of pain, her nipples so aroused and hardened she wanted to beg him to leave them alone. He moved on, pressing kisses to her abdomen and lower, until he reached the core of her. There, he paused once more before dipping his head to give her that most intimate of kisses.

Fingers, tongue, lips, he used every tool at his disposal to bring her to her peak. And peak she did, crying out as his tongue swirled around her nub, as his fingers emulated the action she truly wanted from him, the connection. She thought she might have heard a curse tremble from him as she was lost in her climax, but she couldn't be sure.

Then he was moving upwards, covering her body with his, and she welcomed him, folding her arms around him. He slid inside her effortlessly, his groan matching hers. It had been so long, and if she'd forgotten how sensitive her ears were, she'd forgotten, too, how good it felt to be connected like this. She didn't love him, and he didn't love her, so it was not the same as it had been with Alistair; but it was a much needed physical link, a reminder that she was more than just an emotionless, nameless Warden. She was Aideen Tabris. Dee, as Alistair had called her. His Dee.

The sob that caught in her throat…in hindsight, she should have expected it. The tears were not because she felt any regret at this act; she wasn't betraying Alistair's memory, or betraying herself, and Fergus certainly wasn't betraying his dead wife. Just…the memories she'd thought she'd evaded came crashing in, reminders of love lost and wishes unfulfilled.

Fergus paused, his breathing heavy, his muscles vibrating with the effort. "Aideen…"

"Don't you dare stop," she growled, and pulled his face down to her.

She nipped at his lips, biting hard enough to make him hiss in reaction, but it spurred him into movement once more. He legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the back of his thighs as he thrust within her. She kept her eyes open, on his, so her brain couldn't fool her into thinking she was with anyone else. His good eye bored into her, as if he was eager for that same reminder.

His movements grew erratic, his eye unfocused, as he neared his completion. His name tumbled from her lips as he pumped into her once, twice more, then gasped and growled as he spent himself.

"Thank you," he said, haltingly.

She reached up and drew her hand over his forehead, onto his marred cheek. "I think we both needed that," she whispered.

He looked down at her, and she up at him, and more of a connection was forged, extending beyond the act they'd just shared. Now lovers, they were also friends. And that was all Aideen wanted from him. Someone to help her heal, and maybe she could, in some way, help him too.


	5. Chapter 5

She didn't leave the next day, nor the day after. Nor the week or the month. Fergus hadn't been sure, when she'd come to his room that night, if perhaps it had been a farewell gesture, but it seemed that they'd found something together that neither of them were willing to give up. Not yet, anyway. He held no illusions that eventually it would end; duty would call Aideen elsewhere, while he was trapped in Highever.

It was hard to resent that, though, when she shared his bed each night. It still amazed him that his scars were not a deterrent. She didn't insist on making love in the dark, though he usually extinguished the lights for his own comfort. It was easier to pretend that he was whole that way, when he couldn't see the ruin of his hand and leg and skin.

They made love often, but many nights they just lay together, talking softly. He told her about Oriana and Oren, about his parents and his sister, and doing so helped to release some of the happy memories that had been buried behind the bad. He told her about his time in the Wilds, healing from the emissary's fireball that had nearly cost him his life. The Chasind had kept him unconscious for long periods of time as they did their best to tend his wounds; as a result, by the time his wounds had mostly healed, he'd lost a great deal of his muscle mass. It was no easy task to recover it, or learn to walk again with his battered body.

She told him of her conscription into the Grey Wardens and the trials that faced her and Alistair, the last of the order. There were things she skimmed over, things she didn't share, but he didn't fault her for it. They'd all done things they weren't proud of, and she had probably done more than most in her quest to save the country. Fergus was not naïve. He knew it wasn't always the good and pure that were needed to see that the greater good came to pass. Often it was the people with the darker abilities that ensured goodness came to be.

But despite everything, the love she'd felt for Alistair was quite clear in her voice, still present, even now. He supposed it was the same with him when he spoke of Oriana. He still loved her, his gem from Antiva; he still considered her his wife. He hadn't considered moving on, not really. Not until now.

He sat in his office, staring at his desk, at the papers covering it, without really seeing it. It wasn't love that was unfolding within him when he thought of Aideen. Warmth, yes; fondness and friendship, absolutely. But love? He'd been consumed by it before, and this most definitely was not it. What it was, though, was something he hadn't thought to find with anyone. Companionship. She didn't want love, she'd said, and he wouldn't be so foolish as to offer it. But perhaps a partnership?

They liked each other well enough. She tolerated his company reasonably well, even with his scarred visage, which was more than he could say for many other women. They seemed compatible in other ways, so…why not? They'd found something with the other that they'd been missing, obviously, or they wouldn't have latched onto it quite so tightly. Why not make it a little more permanent?

He blew out a breath. No, not yet. Too soon, far too soon. He lurched to his feet and strode over to the bare space on the wall. Even though more than four years had passed, the outline of the painting was still visible. Not a day went by that he didn't regret his actions that night. Fueled by drink, he'd taken his sword to the family portrait in a fit of rage. He'd fought so valiantly to recover from his injuries in order to return to Oriana and Oren, only to return to an empty castle and a family that had been dead for nigh on a year.

Beneath the sorrow and the pain had been the anger of betrayal. If he were honest with himself, it was still there, smoldering impotently. It had built for weeks, months, as he struggled to right what had been done to his home, until it overflowed the levees brought down by whiskey. That night, he'd taken out his anger on the painting, screaming out his rage even as he slashed it into unrecognizable shreds. How dare they not be here to welcome him when he'd tried so hard, for so long, to make it back to them? How dare they leave him alone?

With an effort, he pushed those emotions aside and stared at the blank wall. "What do I do, Ree?" he whispered. "I don't love her, but I do care for her, more than I ever thought I would. Should I ask? Is it right?"

He expected a wave of guilt at the question, so softly voiced, but none swept over him. He envisioned the portrait as it had been: he and Oriana standing behind Oren, each of them with a hand on the boy's shoulder. The artist had captured the blue of her eyes perfectly, and hadn't corrected the mussed nature of Oren's hair.

He missed them, dearly still, but the ache had faded. Not completely—he doubted it would ever truly disappear—but enough that it no longer felt as though he were drowning when he thought of them. Talking with Aideen, sharing them with her, had helped him remember the good memories and subdue the bad. Finally, after so long, he was healing.

"I won't," he decided suddenly. Not yet, at any rate. It was too soon, and they'd just discovered this connection. He didn't want to erase it by acting too quickly, by chasing her away. He gave the bare wall a crooked smile, then lifted his good hand and pressed a kiss to the fingers, before brushing it against the stone.

"Fergus?"

He spun to face Aideen, his lopsided smile widening. "Good afternoon! How did it go?" He took in her disheveled appearance and his smile fell. Blood smeared her cheek and armor. The fact that she had not cleaned up before seeing him bespoke a great deal. "Not well?"

"Everyone in the squad returned safely," she assured him.

"The bannorn?" He steeled himself for the news at which her chilly gaze hinted.

She blew out a breath, then collapsed in the nearest chair. "The bannorn itself is fine. A number of freeholds, though...they were destroyed."

Fergus blinked. He felt as though someone had just taken a warhammer to his chest and pounded the breath out of his lungs. "Destroyed? How? By sodding wolves?"

"Not wolves. Darkspawn. We killed them, every last Maker-damned one of them." She scrubbed her hands over her face, and he saw, for a moment, the weariness that plagued her: in her dull eyes, the heavy way in which she lifted her arms. "But they'd already sacked the freeholds. Killed the men, and the women..." Her voice drifted off, and she stared at her blood-flecked glove, as if seeing it for the first time.

No one had survived then. Rage rose within him, and he clenched his fists, staring at her. "Why are they still here?" he demanded, his voice loud and as sharp as a well-honed blade.

"Because they are," she said, her head dropping back against the chair.

"That's your answer?" he shouted. "That's the only thing you can tell me, that they're still a menace because they are?"

Her head whipped up, her eyes sparking cold fire. "I don't have an answer for you! I wish I did. I wish I could say that attacks like this will never happen again, that the monsters will disappear forever, but I can't. I can't!" She leapt to her feet, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. "There are tens of thousands of these...these things in the Deep Roads. Maybe hundreds of thousands. And they keep replenishing their numbers." Her light eyes darkened for a moment, from memories or anger, or both; he couldn't tell.

And right now, he didn't care. "It's your job to eradicate them. What are the Wardens doing? Just waiting for them to strike?"

She spun and marched over to him, her entire petite form vibrating with indignation. She lifted a hand, index finger extended, and poked him—hard—in the chest. "Don't you dare insinuate that I or the rest of the Wardens have not been doing our duty. I have been nothing but duty since the moment Duncan took me from the Alienage." She jabbed her finger in his chest again. "You don't understand. This is a war that we will never win. Not until the last archdemon rises. Until then, we can only stem the flow, mitigate the damage that's done. You have no idea what it's like, knowing that I will struggle my entire life at this task, with no hope of success."

It was she who didn't understand. Darkspawn were supposed to disperse when the Blight was done. Five years later, they should not be a threat. "Innocent people—my people—died!"

"I know that!" She threw her hands in the air. "What you need to know is that even if I had sent all of my Wardens into the Deep Roads, I could not have prevented this. There are too many to defeat. We need to patch it piecemeal, and we need the lords of the land to recognize the signs of darkspawn. You had no inkling that there were darkspawn? None at all?"

Fergus crossed his arms over his chest. Again, her words struck too close to the truth. That particular bann had complained about wolves for months, and he hadn't once sent men to investigate, preferring to remain aloof and resentful. Wolves were not darkspawn, however. Of the monsters, there had been no indication.

He narrowed his eyes, glaring at her accusingly. "So this is my fault."

"If you knew of the darkspawn and the damage and did nothing, you're damned right it is!" It was nearly a shriek that burst from her, showcasing a lack of control he hadn't previously seen. "Maker's ass, Fergus, I'm only one woman. The Wardens are only two dozen in number. We can't be everywhere. We're only mortal beings!"

"Mortal beings who've sworn an oath to protect the people of Thedas from these monsters." In contrast to her own, his voice was measured and even.

She stared at him and he met her eyes, knowing his own blazed with fury. This was her task, her duty. If he'd sent men to investigate without the Wardens, no doubt they would have died as well. It was the Wardens who should be patrolling, protecting the land. It was their responsibility.

"I'm going to bathe," she stated, spinning on her heel. She did not look back as she stalked out of the room.

He let her go. What more was there to say? She knew his stance, and he knew hers. Maybe she believed it was an insurmountable task, but that didn't mean she shouldn't still strive to complete it. Glancing up at the blank space on the wall, he blew out a breath, then turned back to his desk and his own duty awaiting him.

It was a number of hours later that he found himself sitting at his desk with the missives from the ill-fated bannorn before him. He'd pulled them out to review and reassure himself that he'd done everything he could.

It became very obvious within the first page or so that he hadn't.

He realized, as he read over the letters once more, that he'd skimmed them rather than analyzing them as he should have. Contained in the second was a mention of dying crops. He'd lumped it together into the overall complaint instead of giving the correspondence the attention it deserved. It was just a brief note, in passing, that the late harvest of feed corn for the livestock was damaged; nothing more, but when taken into account with the attacks…

Aideen was right. Even if he hadn't put the pieces together, he should have done more than he had. He'd been too wrapped up in resentment and self-pity to care, and his people had paid for it.

He close his eye and let his head rest on his arms cross on his desk. Damn it. Damn the darkspawn, damn the bann for not being more descriptive, but mostly, damn himself for not being the teyrn his father had trained him to be.

The teyrn was steward, caretaker, of his people. The power and privilege afforded by the title was granted by the people. They trusted him to protect them, to lead them—and, Maker's ass, he'd betrayed that trust. In little ways, like skimming over correspondence and not paying enough attention to Donnell's summary reports, and big ones, like not sending a patrol to help the bannorns when requested.

He swallowed, feeling keenly the disappointment of his father. If Bryce Cousland were here…if he were able, no doubt he'd be wrestling back the teyrnir from his son. It wasn't the first time Fergus had thought that…but this time he refused to acknowledge the self-pity that chased the thought. Dwelling on what he'd done wrong and feeling sorry for himself wouldn't help himself avoid the same problems in the future. He had to learn, he had to move on, and most of all, he had to forgive himself for making the mistakes.

He sat back in his chair, wondering where the thoughts had come from. The source wasn't hard to determine: Aideen. He'd spoken of how he blamed himself for a long time after he'd returned to Highever, that perhaps if he'd insisted on waiting for his father and Howe, he could have somehow stopped the coup. Or if he'd just been smarter, more observant—

"Why not blame yourself for not being blessed with Andraste's gift of foresight, as well?" Aideen had scolded. "Wishing the past was different is as useless as trying to bargain with darkspawn. You need to stop living in history, Fergus, and give yourself permission to move on without them."

He had been quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. She had great insight into how things should be, but experience had already taught him that Aideen was less than dedicated to following her advice herself. "And have you given yourself permission to move on?"

"No," she had admitted freely. "But I wasn't allowed the luxury of staying motionless in one place, either."

She'd been forced to leave the past in the past, though circumstance. Duty had compelled her. Her words from earlier came thundering back, about the impossible task set out before her, and the fact that she would never stop trying to complete it. He realized, then, that Aideen Tabris was probably the strongest individual he'd ever had the privilege of knowing.

She held no resentment within her. There was anger there, yes, and hurt, and pain, but she did not hate who or what she was. Not like he had been on the cusp of doing. She had accepted it, embraced it, and allowed it to buoy her up.

What had he done? He'd rebelled against his own duty like a child, blaming others for his shortfalls.

No more. He pushed to his feet, pausing for a moment, as always, as his left leg adjusted to the weight he needed to put on it. He owed Aideen an apology, and his people one as well.

And he also owed his people solid leadership. He could not think of a better means in which to fulfill that implied promise than by requesting that Aideen become his partner, his teyrna.

Taking a deep breath, he began the journey to their rooms.


	6. Chapter 6

Instead of retreating to the bath in the rooms she shared with Fergus, Aideen marched out to the training ground. She didn't want to be around his things, she didn't want to be reminded that for a time, she'd allowed herself to forget who and what she was. For a solid two hours, she practiced her strikes against a motionless dummy. It wasn't her favorite method of practice—a live opponent always made things more interesting—but she felt like killing something.

That wasn't the best attitude to have when sparring.

By the time she finished with the dummy, its linen skin hung in tatters, the straw it had been stuffed with scattered around the pole on which it dwelled. She wiped the back of a hand across her brow. Sweat turned her leather glove dark and she grimaced.

Now it was time to bathe.

She hesitated for a moment, unable to decide if she should return to Fergus's quarters or perhaps commandeer one of the many guest rooms again. In hindsight, she probably should have kept more of a distance between them, and maintaining her own rooms—even if they were seldom used—would have done that. But all of her belongings were in Fergus's room, her toiletries, and so on, and tiredness was starting to edge in alongside the aches in her muscles.

That decided her. She would return to their quarters, bathe, perhaps rest, then eat, and from there she would be better able to choose the proper path for her future.

As she sank into the not-quite scalding water of the bath, she couldn't help but review Fergus's words to her. As stubborn and infuriating as he'd been, he'd also been right. She was sworn to battle the darkspawn, and that was something she hadn't been doing for this past month. A break had been needed, and a break had been taken; even if it wasn't the break she'd intended. Perhaps it was time for her to continue on her journey. When she'd left Amaranthine, she'd had the vague notion of visiting other Wardens, in Orlais, the Free Marches, and possibly even as far away as the Anderfels.

But now…now she was reluctant to go anywhere. She didn't want to travel, she didn't want to take up the reins of her duty. She wanted to stay here and help a very wounded man find his feet again.

It wasn't love. What she felt for Fergus held none of the wonder or amazement she'd felt when looking at Alistair. But there was a tenderness to her thoughts as they turned to Fergus, despite their heated words. She cared for him; she might even say she cared for him deeply.

She pondered her choices as the sun's golden light ebbed from the room. She added more hot water twice, unwilling to leave her sanctuary just yet. So it was that Fergus found her some time later, laying in the near-dark, waterlogged and lost in thought.

He cleared his throat gently and she started, splashing soapy water over the edge of the tub. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said softly. His good eye had lost the fire of anger, and he seemed relaxed, leaning against the doorjamb casually.

"It's all right. I should have gotten out long ago." She pushed upward, standing before him nude and unconcerned about it. "Hand me that towel?"

Fergus did so, and she didn't miss the flash of interest in his eye. Her body was slim, as most elven forms were. She might not be as buxom as a human woman who had been raised to be soft and welcoming, but she was not lacking in curves.

She stepped out of the bath and into the towel held out for her, and began the process of drying off. Her fingers and toes were wrinkled and felt odd, but she did not regret the time she'd spent in the water. It had been a much needed respite and allowed her to think. To come to some conclusions.

Securing the towel around her chest, she turned back to him. "Fergus…"

"You make me a better man."

She blinked at him, stunned. Of all the things that she could have expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn't one of them. "What?"

"You. Being here. Listening to me, talking to me." He gave her that crooked smile she'd come to adore on him. "It makes me a better man."

"Fergus, I haven't—"

"Don't leave, Aideen."

The way he said it, that hopeful tone in his voice, made her pause. She looked at him, her heart thudding. The years had fallen away from him once more, replaced with possibilities. Opportunities.

"I'm not planning on it," she said softly. Not yet, anyway. She would need to leave eventually, but she was not going to run because of an argument.

With a groan, he stepped forward and folded her into his embrace, his lips slanted hard over hers. She welcomed him; time was too short, her time, especially, too limited, to waste it on holding grudges.

"I want to scoop you up and carry you to the bed," he admitted against her lips. "I'd likely drop you, though."

"I am yours to direct, Just Fergus," she said with a glimmer in her gaze. She smiled up at him and allowed him to guide her out of the bathing room and toward the bed.

###

Afterwards, she relished just laying in his arms. Darkness had fallen, and he had deigned to light a spare few candles near the bed, just enough that they could see each other's features. She nuzzled against his chest, enjoying the warmth and closeness even as her stomach protested, yet again, that she hadn't eaten in hours. The Grey Warden hunger would not be denied for much longer.

She shifted in his arms, preparing to leave the warmth of the bed and get dressed to raid the larder. His arms tightened around her, though, and held her in place.

"Aideen…"

"Unless you want me to start chewing on the bedclothes, you'll need to let me go get something to eat."

Fergus chuckled, and squeezed her before loosening his grip entirely. "Thwarted by the Warden hunger, I see."

"I suppose I could hold off a moment more if there was something you needed from me." She smiled at him, her gaze playful, then frowned as his expression turned serious for an instant.

It lightened almost immediately, however. "I wouldn't dream of standing between a Warden and her food. Go. What I want to talk about can wait."

Still, she hesitated. "You're sure?"

He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then pulled back. "I'm sure. Go feed your hollow leg."

Giggling, she rose from bed and got dressed, then made her way quickly to the larder. She didn't waste time wondering what Fergus wanted to discuss with her; the quicker she retrieved a small meal, the quicker she could return and find out.

The larder, as always, was well-stocked. Due to the lateness of the hour, neither the cooks nor the servants were about, their duties completed for the day. Aideen began browsing, finding a cookie to nibble on, and some bread. Glancing up, she spotted a wheel of cheese on one of the upper shelves, a good dozen feet off the floor, and smiled. It reminded her of Alistair, the selection of cheese he always insisted on keeping with him in camp. He'd encouraged her to try a few different types, telling her that he'd always found that cheese did an excellent job at curbing hunger pangs in the middle of the night. He hadn't been wrong.

The smile still stretched her lips as she looked about for a ladder. There, on the other side of the room, resting against the wall on the floor. She carted it over and set it up carefully, then began to climb up to retrieve the cheese.

She didn't realize until she stepped on the second-to-top riser that it was rotten. Her foot crashed through. She sucked in a breath, her stomach jumping, as she lurched forward to grab onto something, anything. Her fingers found the edge of the shelves, but her added weight pulled them away from the wall.

She didn't even have time to let out a scream as she crashed to the floor, the shelves on top of her.


	7. Chapter 7

Donnell's rushed words about an accident in the larder jolted Fergus from bed. It sounded innocuous…after all, what could have possibly have befallen her? It was a larder, for the Maker's sake.

His heart leapt into his throat as he gazed at the chaos that had taken over the small room. Broken shelves, broken crates; food scattered about; clay jars broken, their contents soaking into the stone of the floor. And in the center of it all, Aideen.

"Maker above," he whispered, darting forward as quickly as his bad leg would let him. He collapsed beside her, gracelessly.

Someone had cleared away the wreckage, giving her room to breathe, but they hadn't attempted to move her, and the reason for that was obvious. A bloodied, jagged board rose from the middle of her chest, and her life's blood oozed around it to join the other liquids mingling on the floor.

"Get the healer," he said. When he heard no movement, he turned his head and glared at Donnell. He had not wasted time in grabbing him eye patch or glove, and his scars only added to the severe countenance of his expression. "Get the sodding healer!"

"The mage is helping with a birth in one of the bannorns," Donnell said quietly.

Fergus turned his gaze back to Aideen. She smiled at him. Andraste's mercy, she smiled at him. "It's all right," she said.

"No, it's not." He brushed his good hand over her cheek, tucking a strand of her flaxen hair behind her ear. "We never had a chance to have our talk."

"I'm here now." Her eyes drifted closed, then opened again. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tears rose, burning Fergus's one eye. "I was going to ask you to stay here, with me. Be my wife."

"What a pretty dream," she said, her voice fading a little.

His heart ached, so horribly. She'd said she didn't want love, and he'd sworn not to give it to her, but, sweet Maker. From what else could this pain originate? "Aideen, I…"

"Don't. Don't say it." Barely a whisper now, he leaned in to hear her. "It's not true, and we both know it."

"But it could have been, over time." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a tear dropping to caress her there too.

"Maybe." She smiled again, and it was just as crooked as his. "Probably. Don't mourn me, Fergus, please don't. Remember what we found together, and focus on that. You're…you're a good man. A good teyrn." She gasped in a breath.

"Aideen, please…" His breath was shaky, his voice uneven. "I'm not ready."

"When are we ever? I was ready to die five years ago…or so I thought. But now that it's here…" Her eyes latched on his, and he could see the light dimming. "Don't forget, Just Fergus. No mourning."

"I won't forget." He pressed a kiss to her forehead again, then to her lips. "And I promise. I promise, Aideen."

"Dee," she whispered, closing her eyes. "Just Dee."

###

As far as the rest of Thedas knew, Aideen Tabris, the Hero of Ferelden, left Highever early the next morning for an unknown destination and was never heard from again. It had not been an easy choice to propagate that rumor, but in discussions with Donnell, Fergus decided it was best. The legend of the Hero of Ferelden should live on, rather than ending in misfortune in a castle's larder. The castle staff knew the truth, but he did not question their loyalty or their discretion. If any of them ever let the truth escape, Fergus never heard of it.

They did not hold a traditional pyre, unwilling to let the smoke tell the tale that they had chosen to keep secret. Instead, they followed the Dalish tradition and buried Aideen. Fergus chose the cliffs north of the castle as her final resting place; far enough removed from the rest of the town that she would not be disturbed, and yet not so inaccessible that he could not visit her.

Over time, he had the Grey Warden monument moved near her grave. Stone by stone, it was taken apart and reassembled overlooking the ocean. If the townsfolk questioned their teyrn's reasoning, they did not voice it.

As she'd requested, Fergus did his damnedest not to mourn Dee. It was not so easy a task. The pain was there, the sorrow, so similar yet so different from what he'd felt when he'd returned to Highever after the Blight. There was no resentment tied up in it, that was the main difference. He refused to allow himself to slip into self-pity or wallow in what-might-have-beens. Instead, he focused on being the better man he insisted she'd made him.

The first snows came just over a month after her death. Fergus ventured up to the cliffs, eying the newly reconstructed monument, as well as the slight rise now hidden by fluffy whiteness. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and looked out over the water, breathing deeply of the crisp air. The sea was deep, somber, and steel-colored; the sky, where it met the ocean, was the pale, pale grey of Dee's light eyes.

He looked up at the three silhouettes of the monument, then brushed off the light snow that had accumulated. He stared at the center figure for a moment, his teeth gritted as his heart twisted in his chest.

No, it hadn't been love between them. But it could have been.

"Watch over her," he told the center figure. If the absent Maker cared at all for His children, then He would see that Dee was reunited with the man she'd lost.

Fergus turned and limped back down toward the castle, knowing that the winter would be hard. Harder than it might have been, had he had her with him. But at the end of it, there would be spring.


End file.
